


Unsteady

by najio



Category: RWBY
Genre: (somebody messed with the punch), Ambiguous/Open Ending, Canon Compliant, Drunk by accident, Drunken Kissing, F/F, I think this might actually be, Present Tense, Pyrrha sure doesn't, Underage Drinking, Weiss has an unrequited crush, Who Knows?, or maybe a requited one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:00:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29230398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/najio/pseuds/najio
Summary: Somebody spiked the punch. That much Pyrrha understands—what she's still not sure of is why she's the one who has to keep an eye on Weiss.
Relationships: Pyrrha Nikos/Weiss Schnee, also a bit of one-sided Arkos
Comments: 22
Kudos: 60





	Unsteady

"I think I'm drunk."

Yang does a double-take—at first because wow, it's not every day someone makes an announcement like that from _right behind you_ , and then because she realizes it's Weiss talking.

And... yeah, she definitely is. Swaying back and forth on her feet and everything. "Okay. Uh, how much have you had?"

"I don't know," Weiss groans, and puts a hand over her face. "I didn't _mean_ to have any!"

"What are you..." Yang trails off. Slowly, she turns towards the punch bowls. Both are still clearly labeled, red tape for alcohol and green for no alcohol... in the opposite order from when she stuck them on a few hours ago. "Shit. How much punch did you drink?" she asks, and gently takes Weiss by the arm to guide her over to the bowls. There's some water there, too, so she fills a cup and presses it into her teammate's hands.

"Um... two. Four? Three. Definitely three."

Super helpful. "Don't drink that!" Yang says, when she spots Ren filling a cup. "Somebody switched the labels."

He freezes. Then, slowly, looks down at the cup of punch. "This was for Nora."

Well. That's one catastrophe narrowly averted.

Once she fixes the labels, Yang takes a sip of the special punch to make sure no one slipped any extra booze in. She doesn't think so, though she can barely tell there's anything in there at all—the drink is so sweet it's hard to taste anything else. A problem she'll have to fix for next time.

Still, this confirms Weiss had about three cups of the stuff she mixed. Yang could probably shrug it off if it was her, but somebody who never drinks and weighs about a hundred pounds soaking wet... "Yikes," she mutters.

"What?" Weiss snaps. "If this is some kind of prank—"

"It probably is, but don't look at _me._ I know that's over the line." Yang was happy to spike the punch, but only as long as everyone knew which was which.

Weiss mumbles something that might be an apology.

Yang drums her fingers anxiously on the table. Ruby is definitely the type to hang out by the punch bowl, so maybe she saw who did it... or maybe she drank like a gallon of the stuff just to give herself something to do.

She has to find Ruby... but leaving the drinks unattended again seems like tempting fate. Scanning the crowd around them for someone she knows, she finally spots a flash of red hair and slumps in relief. "Pyrrha! Over here!"

"Yang?" Pyrrha extricates herself from the crowd and stands there—steady on her feet, not slurring her words. _Nice._

"Somebody swapped the labels," she explains. "Can you make sure they don't try it again? Oh, and keep an eye on Weiss."

"Well, I, um—" Pyrrha says, her eyes going wide in alarm.

"But—" Weiss starts to protest.

"Great!" Yang dives into the crowd, and spends a solid minute or so searching for Ruby's bright red cloak before she remembers that she isn't wearing it tonight.

_Dammit._

* * *

Pyrrha stares at Yang's retreating back like she's a life preserver disappearing under the waves. She isn't entirely sure how to talk to drunk people, much less how to talk to _Weiss,_ and put together...

"It feels nice."

"That's, um... good?" Pyrrha glances up from the punch bowls long enough to see that Weiss is leaning her forehead against the wall.

"I don't want it to feel nice."

Pyrrha should say something back. Something that would make Weiss feel a little better, like... "Oh."

"Aren't I supposed to feel sick by now?" Weiss prods her own forehead experimentally, and nearly pokes herself in the eye. "When do hangovers start?"

"The next morning?" Pyrrha's never been drunk enough to get one before, so this guess is based entirely on movies she's watched with her team.

"It's not going to feel this good for _hours,_ is it?"

"I'm sorry, I really don't know."

Weiss squints at her. "Right. Of course you don't."

Pyrrha feels a little indignant at that. She only meant that she didn't know how much Weiss had drunk in the first place, not that she's never been to a party before. Granted, all the others were formal events, but she had a bit of champagne after her last tournament and enjoyed it well enough.

"And I'm talking a lot. A _lot."_ Weiss' eyes go wide with horror. "I'm _chatty."_

Is it normal to for a drunk person to analyze their own impairment this much? Pyrrha certainly didn't. She looks around, but doesn't see anyone nearby that she can ask. So she fixes on a smile and says, "That's alright."

"No. I have no filter right now and I need to stop talking before—" and then Weiss clamps a hand over her own mouth to muffle the end of the sentence.

"I won't repeat anything you say," Pyrrha assures her. "So you don't have to worry about it spreading around."

"That doesn't help when I don't want _you_ to know either," Weiss points out. "And you're the last person I'd want to tell—" She cuts herself off again, this time with a stricken expression. "That came out wrong."

"No offense taken," Pyrrha says—though she does, a little. "I wouldn't say you're the _last_ person I'd want to tell anything, but I can think of a thing or two I'd much rather share with other people." That only seems to make things worse, and for the next several minutes Weiss keeps her mouth clamped shut, glaring at the punch bowls like she's trying to melt a hole through them.

Then, along comes Pyrrha's worst fear—Jaune approaches them, flushed and sweaty from dancing, with an empty red cup in his hand. She wonders what will happen if he tries to charm Weiss right now, and imagines twin worst-case scenarios. Maybe she'll reject him even more harshly than usual, or maybe... was that what she didn't want to say to Pyrrha? That she _does_ like him, but she's refusing to go out with him for some other reason?  
  


Panicked, she points at him and blurts, "Here comes Jaune!" in what she desperately hopes is her normal tone of voice—or at least, close enough to fool a drunk Weiss.

Weiss makes a face, partway between dislike and distaste.

"Why don't we ask him to watch the punch and get you outside for some air?"

To her relief, Weiss seizes on the suggestion immediately. The hard part is convincing her to stay put long enough to explain things to Jaune. His eyes light up when he sees them— _Weiss—_ and he opens his mouth to say something before Pyrrha can stop him.

"I can't be polite right now," Weiss says. "Don't talk to me."

"Someone switched the labels," Pyrrha explains.

The wounded look on his face turns into realization. "Oh! That explains why everything's kinda fizzy." His brow furrows. "Are you okay?"

"No."

"Can you stay here and make sure no one changes them again? We're going to go for some air."  
  


Pyrrha doesn't wait for him to finish agreeing before she steers Weiss out of the ballroom. It's indeed much easier to breathe out here, and she relaxes almost immediately. It will be fine. She will listen to Weiss ramble a little while longer, and then Yang will be back and it will be _fine._

Weiss sighs explosively. "Why do you like him?"

There's an instant of horrified silence. Then she groans and buries her head in her hands. "Forget I said that. I _hate_ this."

"Perhaps it would be easier to... go with the flow a little more?" Pyrrha suggests. "You can't fight it off, but it will pass with time."

"I can't control what comes out of my _mouth,"_ Weiss seethes, as if Pyrrha didn't say anything. "Why does she—why would _anyone_ do this on purpose?"

"Some people find it relaxing." Pyrrha remembers feeling warm and a little fuzzy—it was quite pleasant, actually. Could alcohol give people bad trips?

"Oh, of course!" Weiss snarls, pressing a hand to her forehead as if to will herself sober. "I'm sure being paraphlyzed is also very relaxing."

Pyrrha presses her lips together and tries to squash her own irritation. Yes, it's upsetting to end up drunk without meaning to be, but she's only trying to help.

"I snapped at you again, didn't I?"

She winces. "I really don't mind—"

"I'm trying not to, and I do appreciate you staying with me. I know you didn't want to."

There's an awkward silence. Pyrrha finds herself empathizing a little more with Weiss' frustration when she hears herself say, "He doesn't see me as the Invincible Girl."

"What?"

She can already feel heat radiating from her face—but there's no going back now. "You asked why I liked Jaune."

"Oh." Weiss puzzles that over for a moment, her forehead wrinkling as she squints through the haze. "That... doesn't make any sense."

Pyrrha doesn't expect Weiss to understand, but she still frowns at the flat denial. "It doesn't have to."

"But you must have worked so hard to get here. Why wouldn't you want people to see that?"

"I don't want it to be _all_ they see."

Weiss is silent for long enough that Pyrrha starts to hope she might stay that way until Yang rescues her from this conversation. A hope that Weiss immediately dashes. "What's wrong with you, then?"

Pyrrha does a double take. "Pardon?"

"I can't think of anything," Weiss says, "so I suppose I must be seeing you like that. But maybe if you told me, I'd stop."

She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. Her mind remains stubbornly blank.

"Well, if even you can't think of anything—"

"No! No, it's not that. It's, well... no one's ever asked me that before." This time, when Pyrrha stops to think, Weiss waits patiently for a response. "Well, I'm not very good with confrontation. I hate it, actually."

"I think I like it too much. I like yelling at people. No, I like being _able_ to yell at people."

Pyrrha stifles a laugh. "I've noticed."

"Apothogizing is awful. I don't know how you do it all the time."

"I don't like to be rude," Pyrrha says, a little defensively.

Weiss rolls her eyes—it's sloppier than usual, and she ends up half-crossing them in the process. "You can't make people see you differently if you can't be incogvenient when you need to."

"I suppose that's true," Pyrrha admits. "Sometimes I worry I've spent so much time playing the role that I've forgotten how to stop." She swallows. Now, when she wishes Weiss would say just about anything to break the strange tension in the air, she's silent. "I want people to see _me,_ not this image of me I barely recognize, but I'm not sure I know what that means anymore."

The silence stretches, pulling taught like an invisible string on the verge of snapping. Somehow Weiss is standing much closer than she was when they first stepped outside, even though Pyrrha hasn't noticed her move. A blink and she's closer still.

Soft lips. The taste of something sweet and fruity.

Time hiccups. The instant after Weiss breaks the kiss hangs suspended, as terror dawns on her face. She bolts, and the world resumes its usual pace—but Pyrrha stays rooted to the spot, one hand frozen in an aborted gesture to cup the back of her neck.


End file.
